


Yearning

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s counterpoint to Harold’s “Pining” piece, which was published last month – as ME says in the movie Ready! OK! – “the pain, the longing”…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yearning

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece to "Pining" - which I recommend you read before this one - even if only to show how sighs, moans, whispers and hesitations can take different meanings and be misconstrued depending on your frame of mind - I guess the sadness often seen in John's eyes made me write it. I know it's very angsty...
> 
> I hope the inspiration fairies have finally awakened... it's been a whole month since I've written a word but this piece finally wormed its way into my consciousness, so here it is. And I promise to make them all better again, in a few days, with a concluding piece that will get them to finally communicate... Scout's promise!

 

The crisis has been averted, the number despatched to Carter’s good care (she’s on her way here) and I leave quickly, or as quickly as my aching body will allow me, and make my way to the library. It would probably be more productive to go directly to the loft, but I need to see Finch. The long overcoat and my suit jacket at least serve to hide the blood that is liberally flowing down my side. My shirt must be torn to shreds. I think the cut is not too deep, thankfully, but it hurts like a sonofabitch because it’s very long. I can still feel the blade thudding against my ribs as it went in. I am becoming a bit light-headed but seeing the library a few blocks down gives me the strength to keep going. Am I getting too old for this game?

I climb up the stairs, out of breath when I arrive on the landing but I compose myself so as not to worry Finch. I say a quick hello to him and make my way to the back room, hurrying to remove my coat and suit jacket. As I turn around to get them off, I swear under my breath, the tear on my side opening up and starting to seep again. If I don’t hurry, I know Finch will want to come and try to fix me and I don’t want his hands on me. Not now, not like this. But of course, he’s heard and I hear his uneven thread on the slate floor and his “Are you OK, Mr. Reese?” His tone is curt and I don’t think he’s too happy that I’ve managed to get hurt again. Has he started regretting his hiring this old ex-op who manages to get into trouble more often than not?

I’m down to my shirt as he turns the corner, eyes blazing, mouth set in a thin line, stiff as a board with his arms already raised up to attack my shirt – this reminds me too much of our close call on the roof of a downtown building a few months ago when I had a bomb vest strapped to my chest. His eyes flash at me and I fear I’ve disappointed him yet again. The coat and jacket were easy enough to get rid of but the shirt is stuck to the wound and trying to undo the buttons with one hand when you’re left-handed is not easy, especially with a painful, seeping wound.

“Again, Mr. Reese, I swear you have a death wish! Let me see that now,” he says through clenched teeth, and I have no choice but to let him start unbuttoning my shirt. My hands are slick with blood but they keep trying to stop him and he bats away at them. I try to tell him that it’s all in a day’s work but he keeps cutting me off. I really can’t get a word in edgewise and it annoys me tremendously. I’m becoming as impatient as he is.

Once he’s unbuttoned my shirt, his hands move to my belt, which he undoes and all I want to do is to lean into him. I so fervently wish his hands on my belt were caused by his need, his want for me but no, he’s very professional about it. Despite the pain and discomfort, I feel myself getting hard, hissing as the shirt he removes from my pants brushes against my dick. I close my eyes and try to think of something else but my hips want to cant and move against him and it takes all my willpower to refrain from moving. The material is stuck to the wound and I tell him to go ahead and pull, hoping it won’t start the bleeding anew but not wanting it to dry and making it even harder for him to remove.  He bleakly does so and slides the shirt from my shoulders. I shiver and remind myself that it’s a good thing I am not wearing an undershirt because he would probably have to cut it off me since I can hardly move my arm. He bunches the shirt and throws it in the plastic pail we keep for just that purpose. When he turns back to me, his face is set in such a disdainful expression that I almost reel from it.

He directs me to sit on the medical stool and takes my arm to lift it gently above my head so he can look at the wound. He bends down and doing so, the top of his head almost brushes against my chest. I exhale loudly and close my eyes when I hear him make a funny sound, halfway between a growl and a sigh. I know he hates blood, and guns, and violence – in fact, everything about me, it seems. 

I want to apologize again, but somehow I can’t find the right words. So I stay there, waiting, thinking about our strange collaboration and about the fact that he’s come to mean so much to me. But I know it can never go any further. I have seen and spoken to Grace, and saw firsthand how lovely, and warm, and sweet she is – how could I, a scarred, middle-aged battlehorse, hope to ever attract him, especially while Grace is still alive? I don’t even know if he’s in any way attracted to men. My only hope is to try and alleviate his loneliness and the immense sadness I sometimes feel envelops him, with my attempts at flirting and my offerings of tea and donuts… I guess we all must be content with what we can have. But I want so, so much more!

As he stands up again, I get a whiff of what makes him who he is: that mixture of old books, new leather, French soap and his cologne, Monsieur André, with its whiff of lemon and verbena, light but heady and entirely his. I am tempted to move my head and lay it on his stomach and stay there forever, enveloped in his presence, but of course, I can’t. I look at the floor because I am afraid the longing is stamped on my face and he would see it and not know what to do with it. He seems baffled by me often enough that I don’t want to add to it.

Finally, I quickly lift my eyes to him so he knows he can proceed, when he says “Well, Mr. Reese, as you’d say yourself, barely a scratch. As you can see, I’ve learned from the best! You’ll be fit as new in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” I always knew he disliked having to patch me up but this cold dismissal hits me in the solar plexus and makes me catch my breath. I’m almost tempted to leave, grab my coat and go home to fix myself up but I am too tired to do so. I fail to comprehend how such a scratch (in my book) would make me so despondent… must be an age thing I guess…

We banter a bit to hide the discomfort, talk about his _grand-maman_ and truffles. This brings to my mind little Finch – I can see him, with his too small frame, too big eyes, too thick glasses, too heavy books, hiding in the attic so he doesn’t have to play outside where the bigger kids would pick on him, eating pilfered truffles that left trails of chocolate on his stubby fingers and mouth, and I smile despite myself.

A few minutes and Finch is back with what he needs to fix me up. He leans against me, his thigh against mine and his hand holding my arm in place to clean the wound and I catch my breath again, wanting to push against his thigh or better still move it so I can hold him prisoner between my own thighs. My other arm itches to wrap around his waist and my mouth wants nothing more than to nuzzle at the opening between two of his shirt buttons where I see his navel peeking. My tongue itches to bury itself there and I realize I am so hard I could scream. I hear him catch his breath too and I’m almost afraid he’s read my thoughts but no, he’s still cleaning my arm so it must just be his distaste at the stench of all the blood – he’s not used to it as I am, and I hope he never gets to be.

“Do not move, Mr. Reese, it’s going to sting,” he says as he sprays the disinfectant. I hiss loudly but in a way, I welcome the pain which distracts my dick from its single-mindedness.  “Shit!” I let out, and he looks at me with a frown – his distaste at my swearing clearly stamped on his face. “Sorry Finch, I’m not usually that much of a wuss. Somehow it hurts less when I do it because I know what’s coming.”

He gives me another one of his curt comments, his mouth pursed in an angry line, his eyes hooded and his back even stiffer than normal. I see that he’s disappointed at my outburst. He probably thinks that I am indeed a wuss and that I’ve grown soft in his employ. I don’t really blame him… I wouldn’t have hired me either, so we’re even.

He finishes bandaging the wound, his hands hovering precariously close to my underarm. I am extremely ticklish and I feel goose-bumps coming up. My nipples pucker and I almost move so the one closest to him will come in contact with his finger. I don’t know what I’d give to feel his hands caressing my skin.  I have to bite the inside of my mouth when I almost moan out loud. I feel my breath stutter in my throat. I hear him swallow, he must be tired of standing up and anxious to get back to his work. “Just one more minute or so and you’ll be good to go,” he adds curtly.

He washes the blood that has dried on my upper arm where it rubbed against the wound, bringing the wet cloth over and over the skin, all the way down to my underarm, and I become self-conscious because I know the over-exertion of my interaction with the number, my efforts to come to the library, and the pain I’m in have made me sweat and I know I must stink like a hog. How disgusted he must be to have to do that for me, he who is so prim and so meticulous. I feel my ears and my neck redden and I close my eyes, too ashamed to look at anything, and especially at him. And still my dick is trying to burn a hole in my pants and it’s all I can do not to push my other hand against it but I’m afraid the flimsiest of touches would make me cum like an overwrought adolescent in the throes of his first hard-on. His hand is rubbing against my under-arm but I feel like he’s not even there – probably coding in his head to distract himself from the task at hand. I want to let him out of his misery so I ask him “Finch! Finch! Are you zoning out on me?”

He apologizes briefly, saying he was woolgathering. I know I should have gone to see Dr. Tillman, and I tell him so but he says no, that it’s his duty to do so. Oh, Finch, always so ready to sacrifice for others. He says he hasn’t been sleeping well and I feel for him. I almost tell him that if he came to sleep at the loft some night, I’d make sure he’d sleep undisturbed, but he’d probably look at me as if I’d grown horns or something.

He pushes my arm again back behind my head (I must have moved without noticing it), and he gently rubs some ointment on a small cut. And now his pinky does brush against my nipple and he makes a funny sound in his throat. I was barely able to hold my own loud sigh, and I am amazed that such a small, incidental touch almost undoes me completely. I break out in goose-bumps and look at him. He looks at me, his hand closing over my bicep. I feel my mouth open, ready to pour my heart out to him but he looks so lost, so overwhelmed in that instant, that I simply can’t do it. His hand follows my bicep down to my chest and comes to rest on my cheek. I want to rub against his hand, close my eyes, whimper and capture his fingers in my mouth, but I only bend my head a bit more to keep the contact with his hand, and look up at him. We stay there, me with my heart thudding so loud in my chest that I can’t even think, him somehow still hypnotized, as though he’s seeing a ghost, and then it’s over and he turns around, picking up a shirt and handing it to me.

“Here, Mr. Reese, and make sure you call Carlini the tailor to have him make you another suit,” he says coldly, turning on his heels to return to his beloved computers. I am left there, alone, despondent, and I almost burst into tears, me, who has not shed a tear since I left Jessica at the airport an eternity ago, it seems. I shudder and try to breathe – the last thing I need is for him to come back and see me falling apart – that would really be the end of it.

The scraping of his chair on the floor brings me back to the present and I get dressed, set my face in its habitual dark scowl and get ready to go home and lick my wounds in solitude.

As I get to the main room, I see that Finch is back at work as if nothing happened. He must be happy to be done with this distasteful task. I don’t say a word – I can’t – but my fingers brush against his shoulder of their own volition as I leave. I almost turn back halfway down the corridor, wanting to wrap my arms around him and tell him how I feel, wanting so much for him to call me back… even one word would do it and I’d go back to sit by him, not needing more than that… just his presence. I’d even settle for his disapproval. It’s the indifference that does me in, the feeling that I’ve somehow not lived up to his expectation… but he doesn’t say a word and I leave to go back to the loft, loneliness gnawing a Finch-sized hole inside my heart.

 


End file.
